


Drinks and Conversations

by SwishyJellyfishy



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, How do I tag that I wrote this for fun?, M/M, Word vomit is the best way I can describe it, but hardly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-13 23:08:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28911366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwishyJellyfishy/pseuds/SwishyJellyfishy
Summary: A loose timeline of the development of Mycroft and Greg's relationship through café (and not café) dates.Mostly drinking, really.Title on my Google Docs: I’m just a slut for unfinished stories
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 16
Kudos: 72





	Drinks and Conversations

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone!  
> (I give my Google Docs interesting titles to keep things funny).  
> Although my account is new, I have been a lurker since 2015.  
> I just needed a fresh start.  
> This is my first Mystrade fanfiction but far from the only one I have ever tried to write.  
> I have three that are in progress and I don't know if they'll ever be published.  
> I just wanted to get one out there so this was written hastily and vaguely inspired by some real life conversations I've had over the years.  
> (My middle aged boys just deserve ALL THE LOVE).  
> Enjoy.

Mycroft couldn’t remember the last time he had smiled so much.

Not the ‘oh, hello Prime Minister, how do you do’, or the ‘you’ve done a wonderful job handling those new bills’ (he hadn’t, not in the slightest), or the ‘yes, Mummy’, sorts of perfunctory upturnings of the mouth he had to do to placate whoever was around him.

But the genuine enjoyment of being happy, charmed, and affable. Those types of grins that came to one without thought or agenda.

They were rare when having to deal with the drone and drab of politics and, honestly, the general populace as a whole.

Which is why when in the middle of listening to a perfectly mundane yet somehow entirely fascinating recounting of someone’s day, it dawned on Mycroft how much he lacked them in his life.

Greg stopped short from his story, a case involving the murder of a shop owner who was thrown into the Thames by his son, to ask about his sudden shift in expression. 

“I have come to the sudden realization that a couple of years ago, I could count on one hand how many times I’ve truthfully smiled while in someone’s company.” 

“You should do it more, then. Show off those white teeth of yours,” joked Greg. 

Mycroft wondered if he understood that it was the man sitting in front of him that had brought these occurrences in the first place.

He continued to listen.

There was no need to highlight it. 

\--------

“Thanks for remembering I’ve been trying to cut down on sugar in my coffee.”

Greg had asked him a few months ago to come to a local café near the Met during his lunch break. 

Out of whimsy (which he barely partook in) and a little bit of curiosity, he accepted his offer. 

Nowadays, Mycroft could not specifically define the moment in which their meetings at this particular café became a regular occurrence. But despite their busy and often wildly varying schedules, they still somehow retained a semblance of this routine.

“You’ll be hard-pressed to find many things I simply forget.”

Greg laughed good naturedly. “That’s just Holmes-talk for ‘I care enough to know your coffee order’ and you know it.”

Mycroft sipped his own with a small smile tugging at his lips. “That’s a bit of a mistranslation but you may believe what you want.”

He received a roll of the eyes but he knew the gray haired man was doing so in jest.

“I think that my next cut off point will be those early morning pastries.” 

“You run, do you not? Does that not suffice to stave away the calories you are fearing?”

“I sit far more now with all the paperwork I have to do so I don’t think it’s enough to really break even.”

Mycroft hummed noncommittally, understanding the sacrifices of desk work. He hadn’t eaten a slice of cake in ages. 

“I suppose I should refrain from telling you that I passed by this lovely bakery on my way to work today. It is newly opened and they seem to sell French desserts.” 

Greg just groaned jokingly in response. “Jeeze, Holmes, what are you doing to me?”

They finished their coffees and Mycroft told him that he would be out of the country for a few weeks starting tonight, dealing with some matters in India. 

“I suppose their buses are not running or something, eh?”

“Yes, transportation issues and vehicular attention are quite international in nature.” Greg just snorted.

When they departed, Mycroft texted Anthea so she could order half a dozen of the bakery’s best pastries to Greg Lestrade of the Metropolitan Police Department to be delivered tomorrow morning.

He received a message when he landed in New Delhi.

[09:12] You bastard. GL

\--------

“I forget you have a sense of humour sometimes,” said Greg on a particularly sunny May afternoon, “albeit, it’s as dry as the Sahara.”

He didn’t really, he was just comfortable enough to be able to make comments in jest, but that was neither here nor there. 

Mycroft was enjoying the Earl Grey that he had ordered himself while the Detective Inspector was essentially chugging the coffee he had bought for him.

He could tell by the hastiness in which his clothes were chosen (both his socks were black but one was an ankle while the other was a crew), the bags beneath his eyes, and the dishevelment of his hair that Greg was called in early for a case that required immediate attention.

He asked him about what had happened.

“Body was found this morning. Almost jumped out of bed at my phone ringing. It was bloody four something or other, I don’t remember. Just grabbed what I could find and raced out of my flat.”

Mycroft mentally appreciated his honouring of their time together. He was about to comment that it was not needed and they could have rescheduled. But Greg seemed to require a friend on such a spontaneous day and, somehow, he could count himself to be one.

When had that occurred? 

They talked about the case a bit. It seemed fairly cut and dry to Greg which meant for Mycroft it was essentially childs’ play but both of them knew to stay within their own jurisdictions. They were prideful men and hardly appreciated an out of turn comment.

It made their association easy and pleasant. Effortless. 

No need to over-indulge on details, to push for more information. 

Mycroft kept the specifics of his career in vague mystery. Greg knew his official role was a cover up but also found Mycroft himself far more interesting than the day-to-day of his work.

That had baffled Mycroft at the beginning. Was he not curious as to why he had to suddenly fly to China for a week? Why did the Prime Minister seem to know him by name (thank you, Sherlock)? Why did his desk have the large red phone straight from a horribly directed American action movie?

No, he seemed to not care in the least.

Greg had asked questions about his time in university, his interest in music, did he play any instruments himself, did he ever watch films (did you imagine I have never looked at a television before?), what was he like as a teenager?

“Essentially as I am currently. I was studious, focused, unpleasant, and did all social niceties with a perfunctory and direct manner.”

“You didn’t have a rebellious phase or anything like that? A secret tattoo somewhere?” asked Greg, who was probably leather jackets and motorbikes, ripped jeans and ear piercings, when he was in his youth.

Mycroft scoffed before thinking how to answer a question no one had ever stated to him before. 

“I once stole a bottle of my father’s expensive whiskey to drink alone in the garden when I was eighteen.” 

Greg laughed because to him these expressions were second nature, those sounds emanating warmth and affection with ease. 

“I knew you had it in you. All these fancy cars and three piece suits will not hide the fact that you, Mycroft Holmes, were a rebel at one point in your life. I’ll carry that image with me indefinitely.”

Not knowing what to say and having a mental war with himself, he concluded that he was not unhappy at the prospect.

“No one will believe you. Even Sherlock would never be able to fathom that I once did not listen to our parents.”

“That’s alright. This one’s for me.” He grinned, bright and shining like a chandelier. 

Mycroft could only smile back.

\--------

“When was the last time you went on vacation?”

It took a few moments to ponder the question because the answer wasn’t immediate. Mycroft had gone abroad frequently but they were all for work purposes and there was little time for sightseeing before he had to return.

Even if there were opportunities to get away, he usually used them to work. 

Mycroft shrugged a bit. “I believe it was right after I concluded my studies at university.” He picked at his salad, placing a cherry tomato in his mouth. 

“Where did you go?” asked Greg before he took a bite out of his sarnie. 

“I went to Seoul, actually. I had never been and I wanted to immerse myself in a whole new culture.”

“Did you go alone?”

Deciding that he didn’t really lie to Greg and felt there was little reason to do so, he answered honestly. “No, a man I was involved with at the time had a flat in the city, so we stayed there. It was quite a lovely trip. Koreans are a polite and unobtrusive people.” 

Greg mulled this over, clearly discerning whether he should ask more questions. 

Mycroft could see them dance across his expression. They were mostly about the slight confession of his sexuality and his former partner, one of very few noteworthy people. 

Neither topics were one they chatted about despite the fact that Greg’s bisexuality was almost a neon sign above his head. 

Their waiter was fairly attractive, he had to admit, agreeing with the other man’s not very surreptitious assessment. 

“Do you have any pictures?”

That wasn’t what Mycroft expected.

“Not many, but a handful. However, I’m not in any of them, I was behind the camera.”

“Shame that,” lamented Greg, “would have loved to see what twenty or so you looked like.”

“About as awkward as a lanky young man would be. I stood out quite sorely compared to the populace. My hair was fuller, however.”

Greg laughed. “You’re so self conscious when you really shouldn’t be.”

“It is hard to take that advice from someone who has probably spent their whole life being attractive.”

The other man shrugged and instinctively ran his fingers through his soft, gray hair. Mycroft knew that Greg was unhappy with it but he couldn’t fathom why. It was a distinguishing feature and it contrasted rather beautifully with the boyish grin he always seemed to keep.

Before Greg could say anything more, his phone rang.

Mycroft knew what that meant.

He waved the handsome waiter over for the bill.

\--------

“I hate people sometimes, fucking hell.” Greg was gripping the armrests rather tightly. “The things they’re willing to do to each other for some extra pounds. It’s horrifying.”

Mycroft passed him a scotch before he sat down in his own office chair.

Greg had called him earlier that night to ask if he had an hour ‘to kill’. Mycroft never really had a free hour. There was always something to do.

But the distress he heard was enough to know that Greg clearly needed to vent a bit and nothing helped more than a good scotch.

“Tell me about the case.”

And he did. Greg skipped the overly gory details but Mycroft could fit the pieces together. 

The aspects that shook him up were the fact that it involved children.

“They were innocent. They didn’t know what their own parents could do. No one that young should ever have to deal with that. No one at _all_ for that matter.”

“It is unfortunate, but this is why there are people like you in the world who will bring them peace. It is difficult to think of it in that way, I agree, but there are things we can control and things we can not.”

Greg shrugged but had clearly calmed down a bit. Mycroft assumed that being allowed to air his frustrations helped put his mind at ease a tad. 

He wondered if Greg had ever shared this much with anyone else.

“As much as I hate to admit it, you are right. There’s nothing I could have done other than magically know their parents were going to do that but I can’t help but feel responsible for it in some stupid way.”

“But you know you are not. However, it can definitely fuel the zeal in which you approach the situation. Your empathy and ability to feel so strongly has been some of your detriments but also your greatest gifts. It means you care about the people that you dedicate your life to helping and that you will go the extra mile to ensure justice is met.”

Greg smiled. “You really know the right words to say to make a bloke feel better about himself. I appreciate it.”

They fell into a comfortable silence as they both enjoyed their drinks. 

“You never had children yourself,” stated Mycroft, mostly to voice the question at the forefront of his mind after having touched upon the subject.

Greg took a sip, momentarily relishing the taste (Anthea knew her alcohol), before answering. “No. My wife, rather, my ex-wife wanted them but I just couldn’t. My job already takes so much of my time were my excuses to her at the time. When I really think about it, though, when I’m truly honest with myself, it’s because I couldn’t imagine being a father. Coupled with the fact that I see the worst parts of the world almost on a daily basis, it felt almost selfish to force another child into existence. It sounds silly when I say it out loud but I don’t regret not having kids. It did probably push my marriage to a close, though. But I suppose that’s what happens when you marry someone you didn’t truly know.”

Mycroft was aware of a few of these details about Greg. His father had left his mother and then died of a heart attack when Greg was in university. She never remarried so he also didn’t have siblings. His childhood was rather lonely and fatherless so Mycroft could understand why it didn’t really appeal to him. But Greg was so inherently caring, it seemed almost a shame.

“It doesn’t matter now, but you are the kindest and most genuine person I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. Although you don’t see yourself as a father figure, I am fully confident you have all the emotional endurances and capabilities of being an excellent one.” 

Greg smiled, clearly taken aback by the honesty in Mycroft’s words. “I’m glad you think so,” he said a little quietly. He didn’t make eye contact which Mycroft found a little strange but he put that thought aside.

After a bit of simple conversation (couldn't you just let one of your underlings take care of that? Absolutely not), Greg finished the rest of his scotch and Mycroft called a car to take him home.

“Get some rest. You deserve respite from that terrible case.” 

“Cheers, mate,” he smiled.

And Mycroft naturally smiled in return.

\--------

“If you could go back in time, what era would you want to be a part of?”

Mycroft pondered this with an amused expression. No one in his life but Greg would ask these rather silly yet thought provoking questions. 

“I have a few that come to mind that are of keen interest to me. Why don’t you answer first while I decide?”

“Well, I’d love to see the first time Arsenal won the Premier League but that’s not really a smart answer, especially to someone like you who has probably never kicked a ball.”

Mycroft chuckled. "You are correct. I don't think I have ever. I much preferred sports like fencing as a child."

“Your childhood really screams butlers and fancy soirees.”

“I suppose but I never enjoyed either.”

“Do you know how to waltz and all that?” asked Greg, sipping his coffee. He had been able to whittle it down to no sugar and a splash of milk.

“Yes, the lessons were mandatory. My parents felt that every young man should be able to dance proficiently.” 

Greg laughed. “Could we be cut from different cloths any more than we already are?”

Mycroft thoughtfully drank his own coffee. “I find that despite our different upbringings, your life is far more preferable in many ways.”

The other man stopped short at that revelation. “Oh, please. My mom and I grew up poor, Dad was a tosser, and I don’t ride around London in cars that seem to materialize out of thin air. What could you want from my life?”

To share it, was Mycroft’s immediate response but he clamped down on those words very quickly.

He wasn’t clear on how he felt about Greg but, more unusually, he had no idea how the man felt about him. Side stepping that problem as it was not relevant to the current matter, he refocused. 

“Many of the things you are naming are materialistic. Fair, my family wanted for nothing and I have had every single one of my needs met with the sign of a chequebook, but that hardly amounts to anything when compared to you. If you strip away my title and everything I own, all that would remain is a man with few associations, familial or otherwise, who is too clever for his own good, sitting on a mountain of the manipulated and, frankly, dead. Would you really trade positions with me? Are the ballroom dance lessons, private tutors, and expensive attire really worth the cold and calculating person I am? When you are overwhelmingly good and moral and just despite the hardships of your life? A person people enjoy and respect highly, who would mourn you if you were gone? I quite strongly doubt it.”

Greg clearly didn’t anticipate the severity and seriousness he chose to address the question. But Mycroft didn’t want to leave a single doubt in the other man’s head that he was far more deserving than what life had left him. That it was fascinating he still retained the purity of someone never being defeated. 

After a few moments where Mycroft continued to calmly sip and finish his coffee, Greg finally spoke. “You’re much nicer than people take you for.”

Mycroft snorted before lacing his fingers together to place on the table. “That’s what you decide to pick upon?” Greg just chuckled in response.

“I know what you are trying to do and I appreciate it, I really do. But you don’t have to belittle yourself to make me feel better.”

“I’m not belittling myself. You know I wouldn’t rely on such tactics for simple emotional comfort. I meant what I said because it is all true.” 

Greg narrowed his eyes a tad before he reached over and squeezed Mycroft's laced hands a bit before letting go. “Thank you,” he said, smiling affectionately with an odd fondness Mycroft was not used to. 

He smiled genuinely, though, ignoring the sudden jolt of contact. “The pyramids.”

“Hm?”

“I would like to see the construction of the pyramids. I wouldn’t say it’s the top priority on my list, but I wouldn’t mind being there.”

“Leave it to you to say something more cultural and refined.”

His phone rang. Mycroft had to return to work as something had occurred in America. 

Despite the cold of winter, he felt the warmth of Greg’s palm for the rest of the day. 

\--------

“Come to my flat for dinner. I can cook a decent meal,” said Greg over their usual coffee.

He blinked. “I don’t want to impose . . . “ started Mycroft. He knew Greg was a busy man and shouldn’t be overexerting himself for Mycroft’s sake.

Greg rolled his eyes. “I wouldn’t offer if it were an annoyance or something. It’s fine. I’m rather happy to use my kitchen for more than a glorified microwave.”

“You are not setting my standards high given the way you use your appliances, apparently.” 

Greg lightly kicked him under the table and tsked. Had it been anyone else, Mycroft would have been irritated at the possibility of staining his suit. But Greg was his exception in many ways. Far more than he was willing to admit.

“Alright, I shall bring a wine, then. Red or white?”

“Red would be brilliant and how does 8PM sound?”

“I’m sure the Prime Minister won’t mind me having the night off.”

“Well, you did have that row. Still sleeping on the couch, hm?” 

“Unfortunately.” 

At 8PM on the dot (punctuality is part of my profession, Greg), he knocked on the door. 

Mycroft had only been here once to convince the other man that taking another holiday with the conspiratory implications of a killer dog was a valuable use of his time. 

It looked far better at this point, more like a home and less like a show flat.

Greg had hung up a few pictures and vinyl records. 

He seemed to be a fan of Queen and The Clash. Not that that was hard to discern.

“Dinner’s almost ready. You can just take a seat. Maybe open that wine to let it breath, though?”

Mycroft complied to the requests after he shrugged off his coat and placed his shoes side by side near the door. 

He sat down at the table, simply watching Greg move around his kitchen with ease. He had made some steak, apparently, which was rather fitting to the wine he had brought. 

Serving the quite wonderfully presented food, with a side of roasted carrots and potatoes along with some collard greens, Greg made a flourish like an overly eager waiter.

Mycroft laughed, the sound far more familiar to his own ears.

“Thank you, this all looks quite appetizing.” 

“Oi, you don’t have to sound so surprised,” scoffed Greg.

“Simply pointing out the obvious,” he said while cutting into the meat, which was tender and perfectly medium rare.

He recalled mentioning he ate his steak that way but was delightfully taken aback by the fact it was remembered. Mycroft knew Greg took his own more so on the medium to well done side. 

“How is it?” asked Greg, as Mycroft went to pour the two some glasses before returning to the table once more.

“Delicious. I appreciate you recalling how I preferred my steak to be cooked.”

“Well, I always pay attention and remember the little things about you.” Greg had stated that so matter of factly, Mycroft’s eyes widened a bit. 

“Oh?” he replied because he wasn’t certain how to respond.

“Of course. I know that you readjust the utensils if they’re not parallel to the table. You even shift the knocker on the Baker Street door. I don’t think you realise you’re doing it. You have a big sweet tooth but never indulge in it because your eyes always linger on the dessert menu but you have never ordered anything. You’re a scotch man. You take your coffee black on days that have been particularly stressful. You smoke when you’re relaxed as opposed to people who smoke when they’re stressed. Your eyes get this soft glazy look and your cheeks tinge red when you’ve drank just a bit too much. You always tap your fingers slightly when you like the music in a restaurant or the café and I realized after a while that you were miming the chords.”

Mycroft blinked, floored and unable to speak. Greg decided to continue.

“Your mouth always curves a bit when you’re about to tell a joke because you had probably thought of it halfway through the conversation and you can’t wait to say it. When you’re irritated, you scrunch your nose ever so slightly because you’re used to having to placate your annoyances with people. And your fake smile looks plastered compared to your genuine one. The difference is your eyes. They glitter when you’re actually smiling and they look dull when you’re not. Few people could probably tell the difference. You’re very good at masking your expressions but, you know, I pay attention.”

Greg continued to eat, allowing Mycroft to reflect on this information. There were so many things he could have said, a few quips he had in mind, some honest confessions of his own (Greg might have been an open book but there were small things he enjoyed picking up, regardless).

Instead, his brain seemed to simmer down to the same question.

“Why?”

“Why what?” asked Greg, unfazed. 

“Why do you pay attention to such a degree? Why do you care?”

“Well, I like you a lot, Mycroft. You’re interesting and I really enjoy your company. Is that so bad?”

He paused, mulling it over, not wanting to overanalyze the situation. “No, I suppose not but I would appreciate it if you didn’t divulge this to anyone. State secrets and all.”

Greg chuckled. “Your ego is the size of Russia.”

“If you met the Russian ambassador, you would change the scale of what you consider to be my overly inflated image of myself.”

They continued to eat and chat and drink and laugh and the world seemed so much brighter.

\--------

“Problem with the buses, Mycroft?” asked Greg as he sipped a new blend that the cafe had brought in. 

Christ _almighty_ , some people had no clue what leadership entailed. Having to sift through multitudes of treaties, acts, and other mundane documents in order to solve quite a simple problem was almost physically draining. 

“They seem to lack the necessary drivers, yes.” He appreciated the bit of levity Greg was attempting to impart. 

Few people would try it, but the man before him was daring in all senses of the word.

He never seemed to shy away from him. Perhaps it had a bit to do with how little Greg knew of his influence but he was fairly certain that wouldn’t have mattered to him anyway.

It was one of the first things that intrigued Mycroft about the Detective Inspector, how he seemed to be so open and honest. 

He carried himself with confidence and ease and let himself be read because he had nothing to hide.

Uncomfortable truths, perhaps, details he would rather others not know, absolutely. But when it came to his emotions, his expressions, his humour, he laid them all out to be seen.

As opposed to Mycroft who kept a thick veil of detachment, superiority, and aloofness. Trust was not something that came easily to him and there have been far too many people in his life who have attempted to breach the frontiers he had constructed long ago for the sake of information and power.

His own brother couldn’t see the differences between the man behind the veil but Sherlock’s image of the world was narrow.

It had widened a bit, caring for John, Mrs. Hudson, that St. Bart’s girl, and Greg, but it still remained relatively small.

Mycroft saw the world from an aerial view, needing to consult the larger picture in order to make the decisions he did.

It was not easy but, for better or for worse, he considered everything to be a chess board, people as his pieces. Aided by the rather fortified disconnect for the population as a greater whole, he had fewer and fewer nightmares about the collateral damage he had caused as the years passed by.

It had never sat right with him, even now, the power he had. Despite what Sherlock said, he did not view himself as omnipotent. 

Making the orders that had led people to lose their lives for a cause, ensuring that others were silenced for the greater good of the UK, it made these processes much easier if he simply did not care.

Caring is not an advantage, he’d say to his brother when they were children, because it wasn’t. It could never be. Emotion ruined logic, it muddied the image, made one come to the wrong conclusions, and forced irrational choices. 

But when he looked at the man in front of him, who kept him laughing and smiling, the moments in the quiet bubble of security where, for the mere hour or two they spent together, he could simply be a person, were ones he had not realised he cherished so forcibly. 

In the walls of this cafe, with Greg’s company, coffee between them, he was just Mycroft Holmes.

Not the 'British government' as Sherlock indelicately put it. 

Not the eyes and ears of the UK on the international scale.

Not the so called nepotistic successor of a modern empire.

He was simply a man. 

Mycroft would never be able to express the gratefulness of these opportunities for respite from the wider world.

But, as long as Greg was willing, he would continue to reap its benefits. 

Mycroft just wasn’t sure he could ever go back to not having them anymore.

“I think you need to relax a bit. You’re probably working yourself into the ground again,” accused Greg. He was correct, however, that was besides the point.

“Perhaps if people were less idiotic, I could take more vacations.”

Greg scoffed with a playful roll of his eyes. “Not everyone is a genius, Mycroft.”

“It does not take genius to attend to the matters I have to deal with.” 

“The Prime Minister would be so hurt.”

“He will continue to sleep on the couch if he does not reprioritize.”

Laughter bubbled between them, winding the two together in an easy peace. 

\--------

“Do you think you would ever get married again?” 

Greg paused, clearly not expecting this line of questioning but before Mycroft could retract the question, he held up his hand.

“It’s alright, don’t apologize, I just never thought we would ever talk about it.”

Mycroft had at this point learnt that the Detective Inspector was one for a reason. He was perceptive, quick, and was able to efficiently apply what he gathered from social and facial cues far better than he or Sherlock could ever despite being much faster at the process.

He had more tact, if Mycroft had to summarize. 

“I refrain from talking about your previous marriage as you yourself had never seemed to bring it to conversation unless prompted. Therefore, I simply followed suit.”

Greg shrugged at this, deciding that he had a point.

“Well, I know you know what happened, using your mind reading trick,” Mycroft sighed while Greg chuckled as that had been a long running joke between them, “but I never really considered doing it again. I’m getting quite old and I’ll be hitting the worse end of my forties soon. Seems a bit late to ever give it another try. Maybe I’d settle down if the right person came by but I’m in no rush and I’m in an even lesser rush to get married.”

“There is no such thing as the 'worse end of one's forties'. I would hardly say your age is a reflection of your attractiveness. You’re still incredibly handsome.”

Greg lifted his drink up and grinned. “Cheers, mate, I appreciate the compliment.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, his signature questioning expression. “You know I am not being facetious. Empty flattery is abhorrent.”

“I know. There’s really no reason for you to be saying those things unless you meant them. I don’t need my ego boosted.”

Greg took a sip from his whiskey (“you don’t have to drink behind a garden anymore,” he said, a bottle and two glasses in his hands). 

“Although, you’re closer to forty than I am.”

Mycroft snorted. “Our age gap is hardly something to comment on. I perhaps am the younger man but your energy and looks would say the opposite.” 

Greg leaned forward towards Mycroft’s coffee table to pour himself some more. “If I didn’t know you any better, I would have assumed you were trying to butter me up for something.” Greg flashed him quite the flirty grin. 

Mycroft rolled his eyes but he could feel his heart beating just a touch faster than usual. “Hardly. Although, had I known something like that would work, I should have tried the method when I asked you to go to chase after my brother.” He sipped from his glass and looked down into his drink, not wanting quite yet to make eye contact lest he give himself away.

He could feel the tendrils of alcohol grabbing at his consciousness as they both continued to enjoy the whiskey. He would never have drank this much had he been with anyone else even in his own home.

But Greg made him comfortable, reminded him that he was capable of humour, that he could be fine company to anything other than the books upon his shelves. That there were people, or at least a person, who might be perfectly content to chat to him about their day, their musings, just for the sake of it.

Not for the purposes of state secrets, political bargains, or the need to push something here or there. 

Greg slowed the world down just a bit (it could have also been the whiskey) so Mycroft could take a breath, loosen his posture, undo those cufflinks, and roll up his sleeves.

He heard the other man beckon to him. “Come here, sit with me. You’re so far away.” Greg was clearly on the tail end of tipsy before approaching inebriation.

Mycroft moved closer to the source of warmth without thinking, letting Greg rest his head on his shoulder.

He stretched and draped his arm around the man and gave him a light squeeze.

Mycroft placed his cheek upon Greg's crown and smelt the combination of spice from a brand of shampoo, cigarette smoke, coffee, and alcohol. It was unique, like the person within his grasp, who was someone to be cherished because there were few lights in the world and Mycroft would do everything in his power to ensure that _this_ one always shone bright.

He placed his glass down and reached across himself, to gently feel the warm cheek underneath his finger tips. To stare into those eyes that were deep and wonderful, that sparkled, and were made of the loveliest brown he had ever had the joy of seeing.

They were getting closer and he couldn’t discern why. But he was losing himself in them and he didn’t care. He would stay there forever if he could.

Then they closed and the spell was momentarily broken until the feeling of soft lips against his own pulled him into something entirely new. 

His own eyes fluttered shut, almost on instinct, and the hints of whiskey and cigarettes upon the tongue he was tasting made his mind go blank.

Nothing mattered in the world other than Greg in his arms and the feeling of this fantastic man wanting him as well. 

\--------

“You should cook for me more,” said Greg, who was delightfully bed rumpled and finishing the last of his omelette before starting on his cup of coffee.

Mycroft sipped his tea, in his full suit ensemble, and raised an eyebrow at the man. “What do I get in return?” he asked, smirking.

“Everything’s a bloody transaction with you.” He rolled his eyes but there was no venom in his tone.

Mycroft reached over and cupped Greg’s cheek, using his thumb to gently wipe the toast crumbs from the side of his mouth.

“It is how I win, Greg. But I suppose I’ve won already.”

“What do you mean?”

Mycroft stood up to kiss the older man softly. “You are my greatest prize,” he whispered before giving him a light peck on the cheek. “I’ll make whatever you want.”

Greg beamed at him. “You’re such a softie and I’m glad I’m the only one who knows that. Governments might fall.” Mycroft glared but a smile tugged at his lips.

“I must head to work now. Will I see you this evening?”

“Of course. More incentive to really get cracking on my paperwork. I’ll get changed in a bit.”

Mycroft nodded. “David will be driving you to work when you’re ready.”

He walked to the front door, picking up his brolly on the way, but before he could step out to the awaiting car, Greg called. “Mycroft?”

He turned his head back to look at him. “Yes?”

“I love you.”

Mycroft felt the bubble of warmth that Greg carried like a second skin surrounding them both in that instant, stopping the world in its tracks. The smile could not be ignored this time and his heart heaved at the prospect that he was hearing these words from the man who emanated brightness, illuminating every dark corner of Mycroft’s life. Sitting in his kitchen, as comfortable as he would be in his own home (it essentially was at this point), grinning up at him like Mycroft was all he saw in the world. 

“I love you, too.”

\--------

“Hold still, this wouldn’t take this long if you weren’t being such a prat.” Greg was attempting to angle the camera to ensure that Mycroft was tastefully positioned in a third of the frame.

“It feels rather akin to torture if I had to be honest.” Mycroft rolled his eyes impatiently.

“You’re going to look irritated in the photo and then you won’t like it and we’ll have to do this all over again.”

“I could just simply refrain from taking a picture.”

Greg huffed. “Come on, love. Do it for me? Please?” He decided to use his signature move so early in the day, a term of endearment and his puppy-like eyes combining to display a face that stronger men than Mycroft would be unable to say no to. 

Despite knowing Greg’s strategy, he always found himself unable to be prepared for the onslaught. 

“Fine,” he resigned, “be quick, however.”

“Okay, think of something that makes you happy so you stop scowling.”

Well, many things nowadays did fill him with joy. He had a rolodex of memories at his disposable, easily conjured up by his compartmentalizing brain. He settled on their trip to Rome. 

Greg took a few shots a step forward and a step back, alternating from portrait to landscape.

“Ah, look at that, I knew you could smile.”

Mycroft didn’t need to check the photos. As long as Greg liked them, that was all he cared about. 

“Now, let us actually see the mountain. Pictures alone would do Mt. Fuji little justice.”

He extended his hand and Greg took it.

\--------

“I’m going to say it now, the press better be ready. I think fusion food is overrated.”

Mycroft poked the meal a bit with his fork, unsure as to what the waitress explained it was. “I think I agree.”

“Sally is far more adventurous than we are. I vote to never take her advice on anything food related again.” Greg grimaced at his rather odd concoction of thinly cut cucumber slices wrapped around interesting bits of seafood.

“That one dessert place she suggested was rather nice, however.” Mycroft decided to ignore dinner momentarily for the craft beer it was served with. It was surprisingly acceptable.

Greg was enjoying a cider instead. “Your sweet tooth is talking. As soon as you saw the cake options, your face lit up like a Christmas tree. It was adorable.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes but he could feel a blush creeping up his cheeks. “It most certainly did not. You had no right to order that slice of chocolate cake. I had to run an extra kilometre on the treadmill for the entire week.”

Greg chuckled. “Jeeze, gorgeous, it’s not like you’ll suddenly not fit into your tailored suits. It was a single slice and I ate most of it.”

“That you did, but nevertheless, I gain weight easily. You’re aware of that. And I must remain trim for one suit in particular.”

Greg reached over, entwining the fingers of the hands that were resting on the table.

“You’ll be the prettiest princess at the ball, don’t worry.”

Mycroft snorted. “I hardly looked that attractive in a dress.” 

“They showed off your legs pretty well. They were all I could focus on, I hardly heard the play.” 

“You’re a fiend,” he chuckled, rubbing Greg’s knuckles softly.

“You love me,” said Greg, his wicked grin shining for all to see.

“I do.” Mycroft smiled softly as he looked into those brown eyes. “I truly do.” 

\--------

“At least Sherlock didn’t set anything on fire.”

They were laying on the bed of their suite, enjoying the bliss of post-coital lethargy while drinking flutes of champagne courtesy of the hotel. 

“I would rather not set the bar so low, Greg.”

His husband shrugged. “Well, it’s all about the silver linings, eh?”

Mycroft sighed. “I suppose but he did seem in rather good spirits all things considered.”

Greg reached over and grabbed his hand, the light from the window reflecting the thin bands upon their ring fingers.

Mycroft brushed his lips across Greg’s cheek before taking another sip. 

“Well, when he found out about us in the first place, it wasn’t the most positive reaction." Greg groaned, most likely remembering Sherlock simply saying no the whole time he had attempted to explain things.

“You were far too worried about it. Staying up and staring at your phone wasn’t going to somehow force him to reply any faster to your questions. It simply took time.”

“Hey,” said Greg, kicking Mycroft lightly under their bed sheets, “remember you made me tell him.”

“You know for a fact that if I did, it would not have gone well.”

“ _ Graham _ ,” mocked Greg, imitating Sherlock’s baritone, “I had no idea you were so desperate.”

“Sherlock thinks you can do far better than me, which I agree with, but nevertheless, you have somehow settled happily. I suppose I should place responsibility in my excellent seduction skills.” 

Greg laughed, placing the empty flutes down before returning to face Mycroft. “Oi, that’s my husband you’re talking about. And I did not settle, not at all. I love you and you’re incredible. Get that into your brain.”

Mycroft shrugged, entirely unconvinced but he was at this point unwilling to question it. If Greg wanted him then that was all that mattered, logic be damned. 

\--------

“Night, love.”

Greg turned around so as to not face the light of the lamp on Mycroft’s side of the bed.

He had a few more reports to type up and although he insisted that he could finish in his home office, Greg said that the sound of the keys was relaxing.

“Good night.” Mycroft kissed the man’s crown.

After putting upon the finishing touches, he noticed that Greg was sleeping soundly, completely unperturbed by the continuous motion and light around him.

He had been fatigued by a recent case that had required him to be out in the field early again. It took all of Mycroft’s coaxing for him to come home before 8PM.

Mycroft snapped the laptop shut quietly and placed it upon the bed side table. He had emailed the reports to Anthea to review them quickly tomorrow. He flicked off the lamp.

But before he decided to lay down, he peered at the man next to him with soft eyes and a full heart. 

Thinking back at the timeline of their relationship, platonic and otherwise, Mycroft wondered how it could have been so easy.

Was it just Greg’s talent to bring someone into his life so wholeheartedly that the person would simply be unable to refuse those open arms?

Even him? The Iceman, as his colleagues often called him, to his face and behind his back.

How did drinks and conversations bring Mycroft the love of his life?

He supposed Sherlock had a little to do with it, but he gave that aspect little credence, as all older siblings would do. 

Mycroft had made many questionable decisions over the course of his career, some were practically illegal, others with an attitude less moral than he should have had. He was still haunted by them, knowing the crucial role he played and the inevitable repercussions that came with them. 

But the day he agreed to meet Greg in that small café was the best decision he had ever made. 

And having this man by his side made the world so much easier to face.

He settled in bed beside his lover, smiling.

As he would continue to do for the rest of his life. 

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry if the story seemed to skip far ahead too much.  
> I wanted things to time jump.  
> Imagine a month or two in between every scene except for the marriage bits.  
> Honestly, time lines and pacing are not my strong suit but I had fun writing this.  
> Please leave me tips if you have any!  
> <3 Until next time! <3


End file.
